


A Song for the Road

by paradiamond



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Post-BOFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3314441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradiamond/pseuds/paradiamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summoned to Dale to attend the funeral of the King, Thranduil comes face to face with Bard’s legacy as well as his own personal regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Song for the Road

The event is singularly unpleasant, not only because of the nature of the proceedings, but because of the general atmosphere. It is raining, which feels appropriate, but the drops mock him. The cold is a cruelty. A last laugh in Thranduil's face. The skies are grey, the people are crying, and Thranduil’s hair is getting wet. 

Bard is, was, a King for the people. They were _his_ people. He cared for them so much. It is therefore fitting that his funeral is outdoors and open to the general public, he would not have had it any other way. Everything is as close to acceptable as is possible given that the King is dead and nothing would ever be the same again. Bard would have approved. Bain, now a man in his own right rather than the child Thranduil had known, knew his father so well. 

Standing at the center of the raised platform and wearing his father’s cold iron crown, Bain looks every inch a of King of the northern men, ruggedly fair in that strange way men sometimes are, and stern-faced. He looks out over the gathered, expression set in stone. “None of us would be here today if it were not for King Bard, the Dragon Slayer and Redeemer of Dale. There would never have been a Dale Renewed if not for his efforts. He protected us when we needed it and helped us help ourselves. He believed in the potential of every single one of his people. He was great King, but also a great man and father. He knew how the make the most of every moment.” Bain pauses, staring out over the crowd. “My father ruled for thirty three good years, even right up to the end of his long life.” 

Some of the people clap. Thranduil lets his eyes drift shut briefly. Thirty three years. Thirty three out of seventy nine. 

Nothing. 

He opens his eyes and refocuses on Bain, who is still speaking. Still standing strong. Thranduil finds himself proud of the young King, though at fifty two he supposes that Bain is hardly young anymore, not by the standards of men. He will be gone soon as well. Bain raises a hand, and his son Brand comes forward to present him with Bard’s longbow. A wave of muttering passes through the crowd. 

“This bow, which my father used to slay Smaug the Terrible, will not be laid down with my father for it is a tool for the betterment of Dale. Before he died my father told me to pass it down as the black arrow of Girion was passed down to him so that it might one day be of use to the people of Dale again.” Bain holds the bow up and the people clap, some cheering in spite of their tears. 

Thranduil claps without conscious thought, feeling like a spike of ice had lodged itself in his spine, with the Emeralds of Girion hanging cold and heavy on his neck. Lifeless. He wore them because it was expected of him. A pointless gesture that will do nothing for anyone, least of all Thranduil. 

The funeral finally ends after that, as does the rain. It is the one blessing of the day. Bard had never been a long spoken man, and neither is his son. He had never believed in wasting time talking, preferring action to words. Thranduil always found his abrupt manner amusing, almost dwarf-like. Sometimes, the those brief years spent together, he would mock the other King by imitating him, but Bard always imitated him right back, good humored and utterly defeating the purpose of the mocking. Thranduil never minded. 

“Sir?” a soft voice calls to him, and Thranduil looks up, surprised to find himself surprised. It is rare for him to be caught unawares. One of the members of his guard is staring at him expectantly and Thranduil realizes that he alone is still sitting on the platform. The guard looks away. “They are starting the procession.” 

“Of course.” Thranduil stands, cursing himself for his inattention. Grief is no excuse for forgetting his duties. He follows the guard to where Bain and his family are clearly waiting and falls into step behind them. 

They are headed to a field behind the city and at the foot of the mountain, where the funeral pyre is. Thranduil finds himself walking beside the young prince Brand, who had scored a place in the main procession but behind his parents and one remaining aunt. Thranduil sees Brand out of the corner of his eye try and fail to be discreet about staring at him, curiosity evident in his otherwise serious face. Thranduil is unsure of his age, having never been very good at guessing with mortals, but he seems somewhere between a boy and a man. 

Finally the dam breaks. “King Thranduil,” the lad says, no doubt trying for a regal tone that does not quite fit with his childish face. “Thank you very much for coming.” 

Thranduil inclines his head and responds, because he must. “Prince Brand. I was honored to be invited, your grandfather was a great man.” His voice sounds harsh and cold even to himself. 

Brand bites his lip, no doubt holding back several inappropriately timed questions about the legendary man he had barely had the chance to know, or perhaps about Thranduil himself. Thranduil expects that he has not seen very many elves in his life, despite residing so close to their borders. They do not leave the forest much these days. Brand's gaze lingers on Girion’s necklace and his hands fidget on Bard’s bow. Thranduil’s fingers itch and finds that he wants to take it from him. Eventually, Brand squares his shoulders. “It is our family that should be honored, your majesty.” 

Thranduil just nods, uncaring that it likely seems rude to do so. Indeed he had seriously considered not attending at all, and Bain likely knows it. But it matters not. Silence returns to him, and he basks in it, letting it clear his mind. 

They reach the pyre, which has already been set up to burn. The dwarf King Dain is there with several of what Thranduil assumes are some of the important members of his council, including Dis the First Advisor, but Thranduil stands in silence while Dain pays the necessary respects to the new King. Some of the men cast uneasy glances between the elven party and the dwarf delegation, but Thranduil finds he does not care about them today. Let them do as they will, he will worry about the balance of diplomatic relations at a later date. 

The body lies still and strange on the pallet. Thranduil takes a step forward, morbidly curious. He was not sure he would want to look upon Bard’s corpse, but he somehow finds it easy to take in the image of the dead King laid out on the straw covered platform. He has seen so much death and in significantly worse conditions. A mix of elvish and human bodies mangled beyond repair and strewn over battlefields. At least the King is whole and has maintained his dignity. Many of Thranduil's loved ones were not so fortunate. 

Fire seems an odd way to pay final respects to a King who defeated a dragon, but Thranduil supposes that tradition is tradition. Bard is splendid even in death, even in his old age. Thranduil studies his wrinkled face, so different from the last time Thranduil had seen him. Men change so quickly and he had still been fairly young then, only a few streaks of grey in his hair and laugh lines next to his eyes. At that time Bard was not truly old, but it was coming even then. It had been been enough to make a difference. It had been enough to scare Thranduil away. Thranduil closes his eyes, steeling himself against yet another wave of dizziness. 

He opens them again to see Bain accepts the funeral torch from Dain and step forward to light the pyre. For a horrible second, Thranduil finds himself leaning forward, as if to stop him before he remembers himself. This is a thing that must be done. He catches Tauriel’s eye, bright and concerned, and looks back to the pyre where the flames are starting to take hold. 

Bain is looking at him now, as are many of Thranduil’s people. _How dare they,_ he thinks, glaring at the flames. _How dare they scrutinize me now._ It irritates him until he remembers what he had promised- what he had _offered_ to do. 

Taking a steadying breath he vaguely hopes no one notices, Thranduil steps forwards to begin the mourning song, his people soon joining in to support him. Their voices weave together beautifully, though today Thranduil finds it difficult to appreciate. The song nearly covers up the sound of the flames, and provides some measure of comfort for the onlookers. When they reach the final notes, Thranduil drops of out the song, merely listening to the ending words. There are not many elven mourning songs written for mortals, indeed this is the only one Thranduil knows. _Peace to your spirit, wherever it may go._ They give no comfort to him today. 

“Thank you, King Thranduil, for that beautiful lament,” Bain says, his voice tight with emotion. His sister and wife are on either side of him, and for a moment Thranduil feels a jolt of bitter jealousy, but he lets it go. Bain will lose them too, eventually. The fire has nearly burned out, so long was the song, and Bain holds up his hand. “My thanks to all who attended.” 

Thranduil turns away immediately, and sees what must be the entire city of Dale standing on the hills, so still and silent Thranduil barely knew anyone was there. Nearly all of them are holding candles, creating a soft glow. He turns back. 

“This was a lovely ceremony,” Thranduil says when he reaches Bain, noticing that the new King’s eyes are touched by tears. For a moment, Thranduil considers laying a hand on his shoulder, perhaps telling him something about the death of his own father, that he knows what it is like to be thrust into a Kingship. 

He inclines his head. “May your rule be long and prosperous.” 

Bain bows to him slightly. “Many thanks.” He has regained his voice. His wife wraps her hand around his arm, and he leans against her slightly. 

Thranduil takes his leave of them then, his host following behind. The crowd parts for them, creating a candlelit tunnel for Thranduil to pass through on his way back to the house they had been given for their stay. He walks through the empty streets in silence, making straight for the master bedroom when he reaches the house. Tauriel follows at his heels as far as the door, leaning against it once it closed, but he ignores her. 

Thranduil immediately sets about stripping himself out of his clothes. He needs to get ready for dinner, he can hardly appear at a state function in a wet robe, but finds that the fastening on the garment are somehow too complicated for him. He cannot see properly because his vision is blurry and he is tired. Useless. Suddenly furious, Thranduil stops trying and slams his hand into the mirror over the dressing table instead, sending it crashing to the ground. 

It hits the floor and shatters, the silence that follows deafening. 

Thranduil stares at it, vaguely aware of Tauriel coming up from behind him. “I will take care of that,” she says, touching him very lightly on the arm. “May I help you change or would you prefer-”

“No you can do it.” Thranduil waves a hand towards his open trunk, his voice strained with embarrassment and exhaustion. “I will wear the white one, and I need you to see to my hair now that I seem to have destroyed the only mirror.” 

Tauriel makes no comment. She has already undone the ties of his robe, leaving him to take it off himself and shrug on the clean one. His fingers linger on the necklace, the emeralds like lead weights on his neck, but he leaves it on. It is important for the people to see that it is appreciated, though Thranduil would sooner see it lie at the bottom of the lake with the bones of the dragon for all that he values it today. Tauriel does up the ties of the robe with quick, impersonal hands. 

“Did you bring a brush?” Thranduil nods to the dresser and she finds it in the drawer easily. “Would you care to sit?”

Thranduil rolls his eyes but sits. “You do not have to speak to me as though you fear I will explode, Tauriel,” he says, not looking at the glass that covers the floor. 

“Of course not,” she responds, expertly working all the tangles out of the mess his hair has no doubt become in the rain. He lets his eyes drift shut, oddly remembering his mother, who only rarely brushed his hair. Thranduil never liked being treated like a child when he was one. 

“I would think that this type of work to be below a captain of my guard.” 

“Well, I am only a new captain,” she says primly, obviously referring to the fact that she had only recently reached that rank again after she had accepted being stripped of her rank in exchange for Thranduil lifting her banishment over thirty years ago. She had worked her way back up remarkably fast, the others not seeming to know what else to do with her. Thranduil feels his lips quirk in spite of his mood. Her tone shifts to one of disapproval. “Besides, Legolas should be here to do this for you.” 

“He is busy.” 

“Busy avoiding his problems, yes.” 

Thranduil glances towards the window where he can still see many of the townspeople out with their candles. “Well he learned it from the best, did he not?” 

Tauriel hesitates, her fingers slipping out of the complicated braid she had been weaving. Thranduil feels her unwind it halfway and start again. “My Lord?”

“How long did it take for you to fall for the dwarf? Thorin Oakenshield’s nephew.” 

“Not very long,” she says, very quietly. "Not long at all, really."

“A cruel fate,” Thranduil continues. “Although there are many who believe that the Halls of Aule, or Mahal to the dwarves, lie within the halls of Mandos and that we will one day be reunited with the unintended children. We merely have to wait until the world is remade. Is that what you believe?”

“I would certainly like to,” Tauriel replies, her voice stronger now. “Might the same be said of men? We know not where they go.”

She has clearly finished the braid but Thranduil remains seated, feeling the warmth of her hands on his shoulders. “No. The fates of the first and second born are not intertwined. There has not been much said on the subject, but that much is clear.” 

“Is that why you pushed him away?” Tauriel asks, almost too quietly to be heard. 

“It is why I tried.” Thranduil stands, regretting the loss of the mirror now. “How do I look? Presentable?” 

Tauriel makes a face that is probably meant to be a smile. “Very nice as always, my Lord.” 

“Good,” Thranduil says, and sweeps out of the room. His entourage is waiting for him at the entrance of the house and he looks at each with a critical eye before they depart. Every one of them looks immaculate, as they should, and he feels them all straighten their spines with pride a they walk to the main house. It is not a proper castle by any means and Thranduil had never approved of it, but it is the seat of the government nevertheless. The guards at the doors bow to him as he enters to find the King’s sister, wife, daughters, and some other girls who are likely his nieces standing in the entryway, which is unfortunately also full of dwarves. 

Thranduil cuts a path around them, snubbing Dain who likely cares not at all. He is intercepted by the King’s sister, Tilda. “Your Majesty.” She curtsies and fixes him with a strained smile. “May I should you to the dining room?” She has to raise her voice to be heard over the noise the dwarves are making. 

He follows her into the much quieter dining room, which is wood paneled and decorated mostly in antlers. Thranduil cannot help but smirk at the sight. “How many of these were your father’s personal kills?” He took Bard hunting in his forest once, and had seen first hand how good he was with his bow. 

Tilda looks up. “Oh, at least half I would say. Father never cared for the trapping of state, he always preferred- excuse me,” her voice takes on a strained quality, and she lowers it to a near whisper as she composes herself, one hand pressed to her throat. Thranduil pretends not to notice as she tears up, still looking around at the room. King Bard’s hand can be seen in almost every aspect of it. There a only a few well-chosen decorations, most of which can have some practical use. Tilda clears her throat, the sound distinctly watery. “Your pardon. Father would have been so happy to know that you came today. You were his most trusted ally for a long time. He spoke of you often.” 

A wave of grief passes through Thranduil, heady and freezing cold. He feels dizzy with it. “I was...truly sorry to hear of his loss.” He says nothing more on the subject. He cannot. 

“Thank you.” Tilda squares her thin shoulders, looking more like her father in that moment than she ever had. “He is with mother now.” 

“Of course,” Thranduil says, his eyes drifting away from her. “Where should I sit?” 

Tilda shows him to his place and leaves him, going back out into the main room. Thranduil watches her go, feeling unaccountably empty, especially when he sees Tauriel wrap an arm around her shoulders in support. He busies himself with the wine. The dwarves file in soon after, taking their places at the other side of the long table. Thranduil barely casts them a second glance, except to count the chairs between himself and them. 

It seems that the entire line of Girion will be between Thranduil and Dain at dinner tonight. 

Thranduil stands for the entrance of Bard’s family, all grim-faced but still regal. Bain sits at the center of the table, his family encircling him so Thranduil finds himself seated next to Brand, the young grandson. He privately applauds the decision, grief is not something Bain should share with visiting dignitaries, better that he surround himself with support for now. 

Thranduil eats mechanically, hardly tasting a thing. The food is passable. The wine is decent. The dinner atmosphere is almost painfully awkward, consisting of uncomfortable silences occasionally broken up by stilted conversations. The people at the less important tables, councillors and some lower ranking relations stop true silence from prevailing at any point, but it is an unfortunate experience all around. 

The young prince Brand alternates between eating with the enthusiasm of the growing and openly staring at Thranduil. It is an annoyance when all Thranduil wants to do is get through this awful experience, get back to his own home, and get on with his life. Bard will fade into the background, a mere moment in the face of millennia. One face in the sea of thousands. 

But the boy will not stop staring. 

“May I help you?” Thranduil demands finally, turning to him with a glare. His tone is likely sharper than it should be at any state function but he cannot help himself. 

The boy jumps, but maintains his gaze, which impresses Thranduil in spite of himself. _Youthful impertinence,_ he thinks viciously, determined to dislike the boy. 

“Excuse me sir, your majesty, I did not mean to give offense,” Brand says, shooting a frantic glance over at his mother who is glaring at him from his father’s right side. The sight almost makes Thranduil smile. Almost. 

He picks up his wine instead. “Did you have something to say? I am trying to eat.” 

Brand chews his lip briefly. “I apologize. It’s just- is that the real necklace of Girion?” 

Thranduil blinks, surprised. “Yes, of course. You did not recognize it?” 

Brand tilts his head. “I thought that I did, I just- I did not know that you had it. My Lord,” he finishes, looking embarrassed. 

“Your grandfather gave it to me after the Battle of Five Armies,” Thranduil answers, feeling something in his chest clench. “It was a token of friendship.” 

Brand raises his eyebrows. “That’s quite the token.” 

“ _Brand._ ” One of the young women says, eyes bouncing frantically between Thranduil and the lad. His sister, probably. 

“It is quite alright.” Thranduil smirks, finding himself unexpectedly enjoying the distraction from his dark mood. “Prince Brand. An interesting name, I do not think I have heard it before.” 

“Thank you.” Brand smiles, glancing towards the front of the table briefly. “My name was almost Bard.” 

Thranduil finds himself genuinely smiling for the first time in days. “Your grandfather would have hated that.”

“Oh yes, he did. My mother says he yelled at my father for ten minutes over it when I was born.” He laughs, and Thranduil laughs with him, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. 

Brand relaxes his posture slightly. “Did you know my grandfather very well?”

“No. I did not,” Thranduil snaps immediately. Brand leans away, no doubt taken aback by the sudden change in tone. Shaking his head at having frightened the boy, Thranduil stands, his people standing with him by protocol. “Excuse me. King Bain, thank you for your hospitality.” 

Bain frowns. “You are very welcome. Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” he says, and Brand looks so alarmed that he turns back. “It is a long journey back to my kingdom and it is getting quite late.” 

“Of course, and you are more than welcome to stay if you wish,” Bain offers diplomatically, though Thranduil is sure he would truly prefer to be alone with his family. He wonders how long before the dwarves will give him peace. 

“I would, but I have many important state duties to attend to.” 

Bain nods, standing as well. “Safe journey then, and I thank you for taking the time to come today. I know it would have meant a lot to my father to know you were here.” 

Thranduil inclines his head, the guilt crawling back up, followed by toxic doubt. Bard would not have cared one whit who came to his funeral. He lived in the present, as the men say. He cared about his life, and Thranduil removed himself from it at the first sign of anything true between them, too afraid of these exact feelings of grief and loneliness to stay for more than a few short years. Now he is gone forever. Thranduil turns away, walking from the room in choked silence. The eyes of the young prince follow him the entire way, curiosity turning to pity. 

His people make quick work of their preparations, and soon Thranduil is out on the road again. Being in the fresh air is helpful. It clears Thranduil’s head and allows him to focus on the task at hand. He had not been lying to Bain, he really did have too many tasks waiting for him back in his own realm. Truth be told he should not have attended the funeral at all. 

Tauriel rides beside him, silent but conspicuously present. They are far too close to others to have a personal conversation, a fact which Thranduil finds himself ridiculously grateful for. He makes the ride in blessed silence. Or rather, with the company of his own thoughts. 

They reach the forest quickly, unburdened by civilians or excessive gear. Soon they are passing through the trees, sheltering them from the elements and from any interlopers that would never get past the guardians at the edge. This part of Thranduil’s home is safe at least. Safe enough to let his guard down and his mind wander. Safe enough that he hunted with Bard here during those few bright years, showed him all the hidden places Thranduil loves. It is not often that Thranduil finds a peer that he likes whom he can also trust, an unfortunate side effect of his position. Most of the elven lords look down on him and his woodland kin, and of course the dwarves will never be his friends. 

Bard was a rare equal. He had been an oasis, one fine point of light in the darkness. He would have been Thranduil’s greatest friend, just as his wife was his greatest love. 

_Friends do not kiss friends though, do they?_ Thranduil thinks, scowling at the trees. 

They pass through a clearing Thranduil remembers well, though it had been bright daylight the last time he had set foot here instead of the dead of night. He had waited for Bard here twenty years ago, after Bard had taken off running after a deer he had no hope of catching, simply having fun and enjoying stepping away from his responsibilities for a few scant hours. 

Thranduil had been sitting down on a rock to fix his hair, the sun hitting his face pleasantly and so he had closed his eyes to enjoy it. The breeze had shifted, bringing with it the scent of the trees, unspoiled by darkness in at least this part of the world. Thranduil let his mind drift, feeling young and connected to the breath of the world. 

“I feel like Beren, coming upon the beautiful Lúthien for the first time, so pretty are you. Perhaps I have strayed into a dream by mistake,” Bard had said when he came back, startling Thranduil out of his reverie and clearly trying to make a joke. Sweat darkened his well-worn jerkin, but he had no deer to show for his efforts, nothing but his smile which carved lines into the spaces next to his eyes. 

Thranduil stared at him, momentarily disarmed. His comment was carelessly made. Bard had not meant anything by it, but it shook Thranduil to the core. 

“Ridiculous. Lúthien had dark hair.” Thranduil stood and did his best to play it off as a joke as well, avoiding Bard’s eyes. “I am surprised that you even know the tale, men tend to learn their own stores and no others.” 

Bard had shrugged, and began inspecting his bow for damage that was not there. “I am a King, it is important for me to know these things. Besides, it was Beren’s story too,” he said, too quietly. 

Thranduil could have been a statue for all that he reacted to that. “I would sooner call you after Andreth,” he answered, after a tense period of silence. 

Bard looked up, visibly confused. “Who?”

“No one. Nevermind. Let us return.” Thranduil had turned away from him then, leaving him standing in the clearing alone. Leaving him behind forever. 

He never again brought Bard into the woods, and did not set foot in Bard’s city again until his funeral. 

They reach the gates of his palace in due time, though it is very late. Tauriel meets his eyes but he waves her off. She goes, smart enough not to push him anymore tonight. Tomorrow he will need to deal with her, but for tonight all he desires is the solitude of his own chambers and his barren thoughts. He dismisses his entourage once they are safely within the walls, making for his own rooms. Galion is waiting for him at the door, hands clasped behind his back. He opens the door for his King to pass through, following him inside. 

“Would like a bath drawn-”

“No. Help me out of my clothes,” Thranduil says, pouring himself a glass of wine from the bottle Galion had no doubt opened for him when he received word of their arrival. 

“I’m not sure that has aired...enough.” Galion trails off, watching Thranduil drink the whole glass. 

Thranduil closes his eyes, letting Galion wait. _Let him think what he likes._

His head is spinning, but it cannot be from the wine, not yet. 

Thranduil sets the glass down with a snap and throws off his traveling cloak, still wearing his dinner attire underneath. Galion makes no further comment, reaching up to unclasp Galion’s emerald necklace first, setting it gently in its carven box and shutting the lid. Having it gone is a weight off Thranduil’s shoulders, though it feels that the cold stones left scorch marks on his skin.

Galion makes quick work of the rest of Thranduil’s attire, slipping a light robe onto his shoulders when he finishes. “Would you like-”

“No that will be all,” Thranduil says, sitting down in his desk chair. “You are dismissed.” 

Galion bows and backs away, no doubt relieved to be getting away from his tempestuous King. Thranduil pours himself another glass of wine, trying to feel amused by the scene with limited success. His eyes land on the box on his desk. 

“Wait.” 

Galion’s feet nearly skid on the stone. “My Lord?”

“Take that with you,” Thranduil says, waving his hand in the direction of the box that holds Girion’s necklace. The cursed thing had mocked him for the last time. He would see that it never again comes to light. “Put it in the vaults.” 

To his credit, Galion says absolutely nothing, merely doing what he is told and leaving quickly and quietly. The mark of a good servant. Thranduil ignores him, just as he plans to ignore everything else for the remainder of the evening, which is rapidly becoming the early morning. 

He reaches up and runs his fingertip over his now bare collarbone. The bone is smooth and unbruised but still he feels hollowed out. There is nothing but empty space under his skin tonight. 

He leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, former Prince of Greenwood the Great, son of Oropher, husband, father, has lived through much worse. It is a poor platitude. It does nothing to make this pain any more pleasant. 

Scar tissue layered over scar tissue, that is what Thranduil is made of. 

He lets his eyes drift shut, and starts humming a song. There are no existing songs for this, for this sort of lost possibility that never truly existed, so he weaves his own. A private song, one that Thranduil discovers himself, for the long road ahead.


End file.
